*
Some time later, the college hosts a grand tribute, and there are speeches in honour of Professor Solete. Bacon is in his tower, and Grosseteste dreams through the centuries. Alhazen is under house arrest, and mesmerised by flying dust.
The shadows loom and dance. As the moon rises, someone talks about diaphaneity. They all raise a glass to the memory of Solete. They are tactful, and pass swiftly over his theatre of dust. Instead they toast the publication of a final collection of Solete’s essays, edited and introduced by Dr Sasha Petrovka and Dr Patrick O’Donovan. In respectful homage to Solete, these esteemed scholars have called the book A Field Guide to Reality.
Everyone applauds.
Standing among the crowd, I applaud too. When O’Donovan approaches I say, ‘This must be a truly exciting moment for you.’
He’s formidably excited. But he understands the protocols; how formal and purposeful we must strive to become, if we are to be believed. He smiles munificently and says, ‘Of course! Sasha and I were just glad we could do justice to Solete.’
‘Of course,’ I say. We stare at the assembled hordes, fluttering their bony wings, slurping up college wine. The great high velociraptor, Churchwood, bestowing honour upon the worthy. Now I see Anthony, looking out of place in another resolutely demolished suit, pushing his hair away from his eyes. He wanders over, and O’Donovan greets him with the kindly attitude of the victor, pats him on the shoulder.
‘Congratulations, I suppose,’ says Anthony to O’Donovan. Then he shrugs at me, to show he doesn’t mean it.
‘I was just saying the same,’ I say. To show I don’t mean it either. O’Donovan knows anyway, but he doesn’t care.
‘Look after yourselves,’ he says, with immense bonhomie. He grins widely, with his lopsided mouth. ‘Don’t get into any scrapes.’
We assure him that it’s highly unlikely. Then he saunters away, to be heralded elsewhere.
‘They lick the air,’ says Anthony. ‘When they speak.’
‘They’re happy at least.’
‘The greatest irony of all,’ he says. ‘I mean, really, the irony beyond the others – is that Solete created a theory of the dissolution of theory. So, in a perverse way, it is a theory of everything. Just not the one they want.’
‘Well, they’ve robustly misinterpreted it, and they’re all very happy.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh, yes, better now.’
‘You don’t need to lie.’
‘I’m not. And you?’
He hesitates, then says, ‘I got a job, in New York. Not at NYU. A small college out of town.’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ I say, instead. The revised response. ‘Of course, your daughter.’
‘Of course, the fellows will be angry as hell,’ he says, smiling. ‘Churchwood especially. No doubt he was looking forward to firing me.’
‘So, you’ve escaped, well done.’
‘Thanks.’
We emphasise to each other that we’ll be in touch.
We’re so eager to end on a simple, amiable note, that we barely say anything at all. So much has been hard to define. Of course, for a while, I was fairly lost. Still, I thank him for his help. We shake hands, formally. His hand is soft, and quite warm.
‘Let me know, of course, if you’re ever – passing through,’ he says.
‘Passing through New York? It seems fairly unlikely.’
He laughs. ‘Of course! Totally absurd. Well, then, it will never happen!’
*
Famous last words!
*
I watch him as he walks, for once quite slowly, across the room. His shoulders are slightly hunched, so he reminds me, a little, of Solete. But that’s inevitable. At the door, he turns again, and nods to me. The light fading beyond the windows.
I wave back. Then he recedes.
*
In the moonlight, the hall is tinged with a silvery glow. As they depart, the guests look somehow tenuous, less permanent than they did before. They are smiling and talking and fading, at the same time.
*
The next morning, on 23 January 2016, a double rainbow is seen on Port Meadow, Oxford. It is formed of two vast arches, which span the sky. The feet of the arches are planted at the centre of the meadow, and rise beyond the medieval town. The colours are perfectly rendered: the brightness is overwhelming.
I wander through the crowd, admiring the bands of red, yellow-green and purple, the peripheral colours beyond. The crowd is in raptures; there are people holding phones to the sky, conveying images across the cyber-ether. After a while, a TV crew arrives, to film the gaudy munificent rainbows flickering in and out of focus. The sunlight surges and the colours are transcendently beautiful. The lower arch becomes clearer, more definite, and the higher resembles a halo. The sky beneath the lower arch is brighter than everywhere else. A TV presenter moves within the crowds, asking how they feel about the colours, the brightness. The doubleness.
‘A path made by a messenger,’ says one.
‘Five colours.’
‘Three.’
‘Seven.’
‘The snake, governing the realm of water.’
‘Ayona’achartan.’
The interviewer smiles politely, and moves away.
*
I attempt the impossible, knowing I will fail. I try to walk towards the end of one of the arches. But, of course, it seems to recede as I approach. On earth, we see the rainbow as a line, from one foot of the arch, to the other foot. It rises, and falls, we think. Yet, from the sky, from Bacon’s flying machine, or if you suddenly became omniscient and eternal, you would see that a rainbow is a circle. A zero, the number of eternity. There is no end to a rainbow, as there is no end to a circle. It’s simply a matter of perspective.
*
After a while, the sun dwindles and the colours fade. A cry of disappointment issues from the crowd, as the rainbows disperse. For a while afterwards, everyone stands around, uneasy and bereft. Then, the crowd exhales with joy, as both rainbows surge into focus again. Everything resumes, and the TV presenters stand again in front of the rainbows, talking about the properties of light.
*
A few people notice that a man in a monastic gown is also staring up at the rainbows, and moving among the crowd. His face is obscured by a hood, his robes are covered in mud. But no one thinks much of him. They are distracted by their enterprises in photography, by the beauty and strangeness above them.
Anyway, Oxford is full of freaks, and a man in a gown is hardly remarkable.
Now legions of birds rise from the meadow, and circle in the darkening sky, and the air is full of melancholy song. Flocks of geese rise slowly, their wings thudding heavily above the crowds. The sun dwindles, and the moon sails into the sky. The rainbows fade for the last time, and, far above, the circle flickers and disperses into the blackness of space.
The clouds are stained vermillion, and the first stars emerge – millions and millions of years –
The past returns, and glitters in the sky –
*
Grosseteste takes his leave. He walks along the river, and into the shadows again.
Acknowledgements
For his beautiful drawings, thanks to Oly Ralfe.
For sublime words and deeds, thanks to: Ai Weiwei, Hilary Lawson, Roger Penrose, Erik Rutherford, Miriam Toews, Angie Hobbs, Mary Midgley, Iain Sinclair, David Malone, A L Kennedy, Colin Thubron, Margreta de Grazia, Leo Carey, Robert Silvers, Peter Hacker, Sarah Chalfant, Iain McGilchrist, Rupert Sheldrake, Jill Purce, Julian Barbour, Yves Couder and Suzie Protière.
Thanks to the wise wizards: Jon Riley, Rose Tomaszewska, Georgina Difford, and Andrew Barker.
Love and thanks to BHDM, MK and BK, blissful surrealists, SCG, PD, DNyeG and ES, P-LM and BWM.
The esoteric properties of dust and the quest to fathom the mysteries of so-called reality have inspired countless philosophers, scientists and even novelists through the ages.
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Onwards – Elsewhere!
A Field Guide to Reality Page 15